Fictitious Shores
by Hue
Summary: What if Weiß never existed and were never enemies with Schwarz? Schuldich and Ran meet in an alternate universe.
1. Prologue

Disclaimers: Standard disclaimers apply.  I don't own any part of Weiß Kreuz – in any shape, form or incarnation.  Koyasu Takehito, Project Weiß, Kyoko Tsuchiya and whomever else do.  Original characters belong to me.

~*~*~

Do you believe in soul mates?  The one person that is a perfect flawless fit, who renders you whole, causes you to believe in a happily-ever-after.  

Do you?

~*~*~

Some believe that a soul mate need not necessarily be one's lover; that a soul mate functions as the one who fills the void that exists in everyone.  

Others believe that the role of 'soul mate' can only be fulfilled by one who is both lover and friend – for where the caring of 'best friend' falls short; the intimacy of 'lover' carries over.  

Nevertheless, both believe that without the soul mate, we live as incomplete humans, always searching for that elusive _something_.

Yet no one knows what actually transpires when one finds his soul mate.  

Would each necessarily recognise the other?  Would there be a divine sign if the right person appeared?  

Some abhor the belief in love at first sight – a concept (to them) that defies reason.  Love is unfathomable, multi-faceted and profoundly complicated.  Can it in truth be grasped simply in an instant?

To claim to love so quickly appears shallow and immature; the love of youngsters who have not fully understood what it truly means to love someone, who think love is something amusing to be experimented with.

And then there are those who believe wholeheartedly in love at first sight.  They live entirely in the moment – for the feeling, the passion.  It overwhelms and encompasses.

For them, the feelings are everything – the attraction, the physical satisfaction like a tangible blow.

Which is true? Or _truer_?

Perhaps it is different for everyone and our questions remain unanswered.  

As some say, to each their own. 

But from time to time the perfect person may pass us by simply because we are unwilling to take time to understand.

~*~*~


	2. Chapter One

~*~*~

Peace was an illusory dream for one such as I.  It was something that I had coveted for years, yet at the same time, knowing the futility of such a desire, I still hoped for the possibility. 

Not possibility that hope could still be found in the dark recesses of my life, but the possibility that there **was** a possibility of hope.  I snickered under my breath.  Did that make any sense to you?  I'd be surprised if it did.  Sometimes it didn't even make sense to me.

I've walked the edge of sanity for so many years that I've forgotten what real peace is.  I long for it, yet, were it to come to me, would I recognise it?  I've searched for release through drugs, sex, booze.  Anything for that sweet release, for that blessed oblivion.  I denied myself nothing.  But that's what I got in return as well.  Nothing.

Hope can destroy a man.  Her bittersweet pain can drive a man insane, and yet keep him sane.  

I don't know where I stand.  

Cheap.

Murderer.

_Sinner._

I've had these words flung at me almost my entire life.  I laughed mirthlessly; didn't they watch those cheesy afternoon talk shows?  No matter how clichéd, grains of truth remained.  Didn't they know what I did masked a deeper inner need?  But I forget; nobody cares. 

I've always searched for rest in others.  I didn't know of any other way.  The adage of finding yourself first before achieving any sort of stability in relationships was lost on me.

I reached breaking point, of course.  (Though I pride myself on the fact that few could have made it so far – with **my kind of lifestyle – and not be six feet under the ground.)  One drink too many, one dose too much.  Whoops.  **

I ended up taking a "vacation", at a "health spa".  (Well, if that's what those tight-assed people choose to call it, more power to them.)  For those who still don't know what I'm trying to get at, I was admitted into a fucking sanatorium.  Y'know, that's the place where people go to recover after some serious illness or whatever, I really couldn't give a rat's ass.   

So, I ended up stuck in a place where rich bastards (and let's not forget bitches) went to recover after their nervous breakdowns, etc.  How I hated them.  I spent almost six months in that hellhole.  Ten weeks of detoxification.  Then another 14 weeks of going to AA meetings, to psychiatric evaluations every other day, and warding off rich, disgusting, fat women who thought I was just "too-too beautiful".  They patted my face, stroked my hair, and touched me in places I won't mention – not to spare your ears, mind you – rather, to save myself from having to relive those horrendous memories.  ARRGGHHH.

I almost wished for the good 'ol days of Estet, where all they did was brainwash and torture you.  Hah.  Almost.  

Gods, how I hated that place.  The thoughts that flowed through those **_nauseating_** people made me lose my already waning appetite.  I didn't even feel up to playing my usual games.  It just didn't seem worth it.  I mean, those people couldn't be **more** fucked up than they were, there was just no point to messing with their minds.

I hated the place, but it was the best time of my life.

It's where I found my peace.

~*~*~

What?  No, no, I haven't gone off the deep end.  Just the opposite, as a matter of fact.  Melancholic thoughts aside, I don't think I've ever been happier.

And as trite and hackneyed as it sounds, it is not every day you find the other half of yourself.

~*~*~


	3. Chapter Two

~*~*~

I was hiding from those fucking disgusting women again.  Damn them for forcing me into this un-me habit of turning tail and running away.  I shuddered, and thought to myself that I'd rather be a coward and run than face that Mrs. Greenwood again.  Another shudder.  She was the worst of the lot, largely because she was so relentless.  Mr. Greenwood must not be giving her any eh?  I chuckled to myself, and then snorted.  Only an idiot would find this amusing, and obviously, I'm very much an idiot.  Time after time, I'd find that she'd changed places with my seating partner (we had assigned seats for meals), and I would spend the entire meal fending off her wandering hands.  Many a time she caught me by surprise, and I'd find myself with a chin smeared with sauce or soup, or whatever was on its way to my mouth when that **bitch** groped me.  

Trust me, there was no alternative but to run.

I ran into the garden, looking frantically for a place to hide in.  A tree, a bush, I didn't fucking care!! As long as I was out of sight when **she** came barrelling through the gate.  As I stood in the garden, looking around for a place to hide, almost at the point of hysteria, I heard a snicker from somewhere in the vicinity.  

Eh?

"Ne, you'd better find a place quick, I see her fat ass coming around the corner already."  A deep voice choked out through another snicker.

Fuck.  

Mystery snickerer forgotten, in view of a more immediate danger.

I spotted a bush, kind of a shrub really, but ah well, better than nothing.  I dove into the shrub-bush just in time.

"SchuSchu!! Where are you?"  I ducked my head.  Ugh, her annoyingly sweet voice, so cloying.  I nearly gagged.  

Goawaygoawaygoawaygoawaygoawaygoawaygoawaygoawaygoawaygoawaygoawaygoaway.  

I chanted that as my mantra for the next few agonising minutes, idly scratching the itch that had suddenly developed on my legs.  I scratched my arms.  Itch seemed to be spreading.  I looked down.  

Anthill.

FUCK!

ANTHILL!!

I'm sure Mrs. Greenwood got the fright of her life when a loudly cursing man suddenly leaped out of a small bush, jumping up and down, shaking his legs and arms frantically to the left and to the right, all the while shouting obscenities at small insects.  I would like to have seen her face – but damn – those ants were **everywhere**.  Mrs. Greenwood got relegated to the 'Unimportant' folder.

Well, she recovered from her shock soon enough, and turned the entire force of that relentless, cloying sweetness (always reminded me of the sickly sweet smell of decay) on me, before I could escape.

"Oh SchuSchu!"  I cringed, while still hopping, changing from one foot to the other.  "There you are!  I was so sure you were here.  Did those nasty ants bite you?  Ohhh, you poor poor thing!  Let me help you brush those _baaaddd ants off."_

Bitch.  She certainly didn't brush the parts of me that actually **had** ants on them.  I just glared at her, turned and headed for the infirmary.  Stupid woman followed me, cooing and groping me.  I ignored her.  As I left though, I swore I heard the sound of uncontrollable laughter, which quickly turned into wheezing gasps as the man ran out of air.  

Whoever it was…

Bastard.

~*~*~


	4. Chapter Three

~*~*~

That was my first encounter with him.  

That asshole, I thought with fondness, leaving me alone to deal with Mrs. Greenwood – or 'The Bitch Terror' – as I liked to call her.  I should get him back for that.  I grinned to myself.  Nahhhh.  It **was funny.  If our places were switched, and it was him on that anthill, I would have laughed my ass off, _and_ fallen out of the tree that I was perched on.  **

Yeap, he had been hiding from The Bitch Terror too.

~*~*~

I crept into the dining hall, arms and legs chalky-white from the calamine lotion I slathered on myself before I left my room.  Probing the hall with my mind, I searched for the familiar lecherous mind of The Bitch Terror.  All clear.  No Bitch Terror in sight.  Trying to be as unobtrusive as possible, I sidled over to my usual seat.  

Scratching my arm absently, I sat down with a sigh of relief.  I was itching like the dickens.  Bloody ants, why'd they have to build their anthill **there?  Grumbling under my breath, I blocked out the thoughts of everyone else in the room.  My control over my powers had increased greatly over the years and since one could never be too sure what the psychos were thinking in a place like this, it was so much easier and comfortable to just block everybody out.  **

My instincts as an assassin rebelled against this lack of defence, but I was beyond caring.  Schwarz and Brad Crawford could go fuck themselves.  I was already doing what I was told, getting detoxed so I could once again be a fully functional, contributing member of dear ol' Schwarz.  I swear; if I had to be on the alert even here, I might as well end my pitiful life.  I was here to recover whatever mental stability I had lost, and listening in on the thoughts of these _people_ would not be conducive to said recovery.  Definitely not.

So absorbed was I in my griping though, that I never noticed the man who had plopped himself down in the seat next to mine.

I stiffened and froze in my seat as hot breath whisked over my right ear, and a voice whispered, "You should have seen your face when you realised you were sitting smack on an anthill, and you **really** should've seen Greenwood's face when you popped out of that bush like a Jack-in-the-box."  The voice paused as the man sniggered.  "Funniest thing I've ever seen since Omi and Ken replaced all of Yohji's shampoo with some vile-smelling vinegar concoction."

I whipped my head over in the direction of the voice and found myself nose-to-nose with an amethyst-eyed stranger.  

~*~*~


	5. Chapter Four

~*~*~

Red-letter day.

It's permanently marked on my calendar.  The day I met Fujimiya Ran.  

He always tells me I'm crazy.  I mean, we didn't even hit it off the first time we met, and that's putting it lightly.  Suffice it to say that the first few months of our meeting was not quite the bed of roses one would like to believe.  No love-at-first-sight for this couple.  

I _still mark that date faithfully every year though, each time making it a point to remind Ran of that episode.  He always tells me to shut up, but his words carry no bite.  _

As I watch him, I see the half-smile on his lips as he carries on arranging his precious flowers and I smile to myself while I continue with the day's business – I know he loves me.  And I know he remembers what happened that day with as much clarity as I do.

~*~*~

"Asshole," I muttered to myself as I ignored him and stared pointedly in the opposite direction.  I was never one to pass up on any opportunity to ridicule and laugh loudly at others' expense, but at my own misfortune – it was intolerable.  It was humiliating enough to have been bested by fucking _ants, molested by The Bitch Terror (*shudder*) but to now be mocked by a total stranger was the rotten icing on an already putrid cake.  _

Oh god, he's still talking.

I gave up pretending to ignore him and turned back to glare instead.  My patented glare – though granted, not as good as Crawford's – was still good enough to have intimidated its share of villains, average folk and innocent animals in its time and it was now directed fully at him.  

GLARE.  _GLARE_.  **_GLARE_**.

It did not have the effect I wished.

The idiot did not let up and unconcernedly kept up a long monologue with his bowl of miso soup, with no one in particular, with the air in front of my face – occasionally sending small showers of blessing my way when his story presumably became more exciting and he began gesticulating wildly with his chopsticks as if trying to physically draw the incident.

Bloody hell.  A fragment of tofu just flew into my eye.

Blinking angrily, I continued glaring at him.  To no avail.  It was as if he was utterly oblivious to the fact that he would have already bled to death had my Glare™ been knives.

It's a skill, I thought to myself.  Definitely a skill.

"…and then Ken tripped over Omi while trying to run away from Yohji and fell flat on his face!  And because Yohji was shouting and shaking the bottle of "shampoo" at Ken while chasing him, some of the liquid spilled out and he slipped on that…"

I was stuck with the fool.  I spent dinner debating if sitting next to Mrs. Greenwood was a greater torture than _him._

I could not decide.  Believe you me; at that point, the two of them were neck-to-neck in the Irritating Race.

"…smelled exactly like rotten eggs……three weeks!  …faded…awful green! …so vain about his hair……refused to forgive……bribed……."

I stood up and stared at my half-eaten dinner.  Eat or stay?  

I stepped back from the table and walked away, still absent-mindedly scratching at the ant bites on my arms.  Oh well, it was unfortunate.  And they were serving my favourites that night too.

I most decidedly did not like him.  No sirree.  What an irritant.

~*~*~


	6. Chapter Five

#-#-#-#

I learned later that he was never like that: so perky, friendly and bubbly. That day was the single anomaly in his stoic, silent life. A freak accident – if you will - I'm sure he would erase from my memory if he could. Unfortunately, that's my gift, not his.

Even now, trying to get him to talk about his emotions is like trying to separate a starving man from a buffet spread, a dog from its favourite bone.

Just two weeks ago, in a fit of pique at his inability to share his thoughts and feelings with me, too much Stoli and Bad Judgement caused me to throw the Giggly-Ran incident in his face. I don't even remember how or even why it was relevant, but boy did that couch kill my back for five days. Grovelling is bad for my knees, but stupidity is bad for my back. I may be many things; mostly unsavoury – but no one has ever accused me of being dim.

Of course, I could easily have extracted what I wanted from his thickheaded skull, but I never was a man to do things the easy way. Still, five days was more than enough. I had to promise to...

But I get ahead of myself. The real story is yet to be told eh?

#-#-#-#

Going to bed hungry did not sit too well with me. The night passed in a flurry of nightmares of giant flying tofu ridden by gleeful ants while being egged on all the while by a red-haired amethyst-eyed demon wielding chopsticks and waving them about maniacally. I woke up with a start just as the giant tofu was about to crush me – or more specifically, my family jewels.

The signs were all there. I had seen each and every one before. It was not going to be a good day. More accurate, it would only be a good day if I could curl up in bed underneath my blankets and wish the world away. Maybe. But seeing as I had an appointment with Group Therapy today, and seeing that I did not wish to have Daddy Crawford breathing down my neck, I slowly got out of bed, still absently scratching the remnants of my encounter with The Ants.

My daily routine was simple really. It was devised to help me survive the horrors each day would bring. I'd just do whatever I had to, to get out. Until I had a clean bill of health, Daddio "I-have-a-giant-stick-up-my-arse" would never let me set foot back home. Basic and easy. Not much thought was necessary.

It was terrifying, though, to realise how easy it was not to have to make any decisions of my own. It was like the 'slippery slope' argument I had read in another life, in Philosophy class. Each subsequent time I compromised on previously staunch principles, I found it easier and easier to compromise on other things. And slowly but definitely, each first time became an every time.

It was really too easy - and terrifyingly comforting - not to have to decide what to eat, where to go, what to do. Breakfast at seven-thirty, lunch at noon, dinner at six. Supper at ten, lights-out at eleven then up again at six. It was all so simple, and I found myself becoming someone who _enjoyed_ the routine – a person I never thought I'd be.

Occasionally, the fear of becoming one of _them_ would grip me and I would jump into the day in a frenzy of doing anything I wished. I'd dig out my highly illegal bottle of whiskey and drink myself into a comfortable high to start my day, just a slight stupor to take the edge off my fear. It never took much, just a few shots, but it was an act that usually set my recovery schedule back by two weeks. Rational thought had never been my strength.

The desire to flee coupled with my desire to indulge in whatever the fuck I wanted created a very bad combination. Nevertheless, I'd be back to what passed as normal for me and the day would end with the standard lecture from my doctor and a maudlin hour spent moping for days gone by and contemplating either drinking myself silly once more or making a run for it.

Quite pathetic, really.

#-#-#-#


	7. Chapter Six

#-#-#-#

It was a something – I realised – I shared with Ran.

No, not indulgence. Excesses were abhorrent to him. It was just the burning need to get as far away from the drill and rigidity we faced daily.

Where for me it was the very idea of becoming just another emasculated drone in this square-peg square-hole world, for Ran it was the fear of losing control.

Rather obvious, this controlling nature of his. Yet I did not learn the true reason for his fear, not at first. To me, it was irrational and in the many weeks and months before I understood, I quite uncharitably considered Ran's presence in the sanatorium absolutely justified. He was a nutcase! He always had to sit in the same seat, eat the same food and wear the same clothes. He was neat beyond compare; his room was austere to the point of being bleak. He never seemed to take joy in anything. Change was something that was unacceptable. For him, familiarity bred no contempt.

The two of us could not be any more different. A personality clash the likes of which I think those poor people at the sanatorium with us would never see – and I think pray never to encounter – again.

But once more, I digress. There is much to be told yet and I do not arrange my thoughts in a linear, logical manner. (Much to Ran's disgust.)

#-#-#-#

I decided that one bad turn deserved another. It was entirely too much that another person had witnessed my humiliating encounter with The Ants and The Bitch Terror. To top it off, actually _laughed_ at me. My pride demanded satisfaction. An elaborate plan was needed, preferably one which involved a certain red-haired devil falling flat on his face – maybe in a cesspool?

Nah. Too smelly. Even I wouldn't wish that on anyone.

I wondered what the appropriate justice would be for the damage done to my sense of self-worth. The punishment, I decided, had to fit the crime.

I wracked my brain for an appropriately elegant plan for revenge; it would not do for him to believe I had no finesse. No manners, yes. No finesse, never.

It took eleven days, but I finally arrived at a plan even 'ol Stick-up-ass would not dare sneer at.

It was, simply put, an absolutely brilliant plan.

#-#-#-#


End file.
